


Reflection

by Lilibet



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Insecurity, M/M, Mirror Sex, Misunderstandings, Qui-Gon Jinn Lives, and a little angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:34:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilibet/pseuds/Lilibet
Summary: The last thing he remembers is looking up into Qui-Gon’s panicked eyes and cooing out a delirious “you’re warm,” before promptly falling unconscious.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 24
Kudos: 144
Collections: Qui-Gon/Obi-Wan Discord Server Secret Santa (2020)





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pomiar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pomiar/gifts).



> My secret Santa gift to the wonderful pomiar, who prompted insecure Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon. Thank you so much and I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you so much to [Cat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/acatbyanyothername/pseuds/acatbyanyothername) and [TeaRex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRex/pseuds/TeaRex) for helping me figure this story out.

Obi-Wan has a problem. And that problem is the inherent fuckability of one Master Jedi Qui-Gon Jinn. Apparently, a gentle voice, soulful eyes, and long brown hair streaked with grey is the galaxies favourite aphrodisiac.

Throughout his apprenticeship Obi-Wan has suffered through the most obvious, painful, and desperate hit ons he’s ever seen, but to which Qui-Gon seems utterly oblivious. It’s an annoyance more than anything, embarrassing really, until Obi-Wan grows into himself and slowly realises that the respect he holds for his master is bordering on something else.

Then, he suffers through the endless flirtations silently seething with jealousy, eternally surprised he doesn’t turn green. Not to mention the healthy dose of self-doubt that comes with feelings for one’s master wrapped up in a code that forbids attachments.

That leads to so many deep meditations that Qui-Gon starts looking at him in concern. He has no choice but to stop because he doesn’t think he’ll be able to cope with the intensity of that thoughtful gaze focused upon him.

But then, because fate is a cruel mistress (or not depending on how you look at it, and Obi-Wan is inclined to thank her and buy her some flowers instead), Naboo happens. Qui-Gon is struck down, Obi-Wan damn near kills himself trying to save him and is subsequently branded a Sith-slayer.

The tongue-lashing Qui-Gon unleashes upon him once he’s able to speak without having to take a break every few seconds is one for the ages. Obi-Wan resolutely stares at the floor the entire time, cheeks beet red, the intensity of Qui-Gon’s fury like flames licking his face.

But the all-encompassing hug that follows had been a balm to the harsh words, and Obi-Wan understands the words had been spoken in terror, not anger. The hug transforms into something else, desperate kisses and confessions of long-held feelings which lead Obi-Wan to gain full appreciation for the effects of Qui-Gon’s gaze.

He doesn’t think he can blame the galaxies inhabitants for wanting to throw themselves onto their knees in front of Qui-Gon. Obi-Wan discovers it’s one of his favourite places to be.

And so their relationship morphs from one of an apprenticeship to a tentative romance. But the habits of a lifetime are hard to break, and Obi-Wan often finds himself in the company of self-doubt.

Anakin is being trained, by Qui-Gon no doubt, and Obi-Wan is being sent again and again to the far flung reaches of the galaxy as a newly fledged Knight. As it should be.

Yet every time he returns to the temple, every time he visits Qui-Gon, hugs him, kisses him, makes love to him, that self-doubt niggles.

 _He will never be enough_.

Worse than that, Qui-Gon notices, as he notices most things about Obi-Wan (much to his eternal chagrin). But instead of facing it, Obi-Wan brushes him off, buries his feelings and enjoys what little down time he has between missions.

He doesn’t fully believe his relationship with Qui-Gon will last anyway, how can it when they’re so different? Qui-Gon the Maverick, a powerful Jedi, bending and breaking the rules left right and centre doing what he feels is right, but also a fundamentally good man. He helps snails across paths for force’s sake, placing them on lush leaves and out of danger.

Then there’s him, Obi-Wan. Adherent to the code to a fault, a Sith-slayer mantel to live up to, and desperate to prove himself as more than The Maverick’s apprentice, to the point where Qui-Gon probably thinks he’s no more than a Council puppet doing their bidding no questions asked.

So, he will take what time with Qui-Gon he can get. Until Qui-Gon realises he isn’t good enough, wasn’t special enough. Until a newer, shinier person catches his interest. Like with Anakin.

And it works. For a while.

He throws himself into his missions to the point of exhaustion, if only to stop the thoughts in his head when he goes to sleep at night. But Obi-Wan is only a man, and there is only so much one person can put themselves through before something has to give.

It’s an ill-timed lapse in concentration that does it. A blaster shot past his defences and straight through his shoulder. It burns like a miniature sun, but he perseveres through the pain until the civilians are safe and then haphazardly slaps a bacta patch onto it and hopes for the best.

It isn’t until a few days later when he collapses on the boarding ramp outside the temple, quite dramatically and right into Qui-Gon’s arms might he add, that he finally realises something has to change.

The last thing he remembers is looking up into Qui-Gon’s panicked eyes and cooing out a delirious “you’re warm,” before promptly falling unconscious.

\--

Darkness has been his friend for so long he’s confused when light appears again. It’s blurry and hazy, assaulting his retinas with pinpricks of pain. Obi-Wan groans and shifts, weakly lifting his arm to shield his face from the rays. It won’t move, and it’s only when the light dims that he realises it’s because someone’s holding it.

A hunched figure is beside his bed, which he assumes is Qui-Gon. At least, he hopes it’s Qui-Gon, otherwise he’s going to be in big trouble if someone else is holding his hand beside his bed. Or rather, the other person is going to be in big trouble. Qui-Gon’s jealously is an amusing thing to behold, and Obi-Wan snorts at the thought.

The figure makes an enquiring noise, and Obi-Wan breathes out a sigh of relief. He knows that sound anywhere. Obi-Wan weakly squeezes the warm hand surrounding his and smiles when it squeezes back. He’s tired again. Apparently two minutes of consciousness is too much for him, and without any real comprehension about when or where he is, he drops back to sleep.

\--

When he wakes again, he’s much more lucid, the healing room coming almost immediately into sharp focus. Voices are murmuring quietly outside his room, too low for him to make out the words, but he can just see Qui-Gon’s shoulder through the crack in the door.

“Qui–“

The coughing fit comes out of nowhere, throat dry as a desert and with each cough it feels like hot sand is scratching against the soft tissue. A cup of water is held in front of him and Obi-Wan grasps it with shaking hands, taking small sips, directed by a calm and stern voice. The cool water soothes his throat, and he blinks tears out of his eyes as the coughs tail off.

Vokara Che is eyeing him, supremely unimpressed if her expression gives any indication, and surprisingly, Qui-Gon’s expression doesn’t look any different.

“Uh...,” he says dumbly. Vokara raises an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

If possible, Vokara’s eyebrow rises even higher. She turns to Qui-Gon. “See if you can knock some sense through that thick skull of his. Anything I say is going to go through one ear and out the other.” She goes to leave the room but then suddenly turns back and firmly points a finger at him. “You, mandatory down time for the next two weeks. I don’t want to see you so much as breathing heavily around the temple. And you,” she points at Qui-Gon, “make sure he doesn’t overexert himself too much. In _any_ capacity.”

She gives them both a far too knowing look before disappearing out of the room and leaving behind two furiously blushing Jedi. Qui-Gon awkwardly clears his throat, and Obi-Wan forgets where he is for a second as he admires how beautifully the blush paints Qui-Gon’s cheeks and neck. It isn’t a sight he sees often so he cherishes it when he can.

When Qui-Gon clears his throat more pointedly, Obi-Wan lifts his eyes and is met by yet another raised eyebrow. He smiles sheepishly.

“What?”

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t really know what he’s supposedly done to warrant this much extensive eyebrow treatment. He figures collapsing dramatically into Qui-Gon’s arms is part of it, but he’s done that before and didn’t received this kind of reaction, so he’s flailing around a bit here.

Although, if he’s being _really_ honest with himself, he knows exactly why and it’s because he’s not been looking after himself.

Qui-Gon sighs and rubs his forehead, a move reminiscent of countless moments throughout Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship where he can practically hear Qui-Gon questioning what possessed him to take Obi-Wan as his padawan. Usually it makes him grin, but this time, he presses back into the bed and curls into himself. His shoulder smarts slightly at the move, a white-hot prick of pain lancing through the joint. He’d almost forgotten about it.

Qui-Gon gives him a wry smile with a forced edge to it and leans back in his chair. “Blaster shot through the shoulder and you think you can just stick a bacta patch on it and be okay?”

Obi-Wan winces. “I admit it wasn’t ideal, but I didn’t have time for much more. You know how it is when you’re in the field.”

Qui-Gon’s gaze turns assessing and Obi-Wan suppresses a shiver at being the sole receiver of that intensity. After a moment, he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “And afterwards? Once your mission had concluded? Perhaps on the transport home?”

Obi-Wan goes to speak and then stops. Qui-Gon has him there and he knows it. To be honest, he’d completely forgotten about the injury, the pain a dull ache that he’d pushed to the back of his mind while he worked on his mission report. He’d wanted to get it finished while the events were fresh in his mind, and it hadn’t been until he’d got up to depart the transport at the temple that he suddenly felt faint, as though his blood had better places to be than in his veins.

Qui-Gon must see the answer he’s looking for on Obi-Wan’s face because he gives a slightly manic laugh and drops his head between his shoulders. After a moment, he stands and moves to sit on the edge of Obi-Wan’s bed and gently cups a cheek in his large hand. It’s warm and soft and Obi-Wan barely resists the urge to close his eyes and nuzzle into it.

“You are far too much like me, my old padawan.” Qui-Gon smiles softly and bends down to kiss him.

They stay like that, Qui-Gon’s thumb sweeping slowly back and forth over his cheekbone, foreheads resting together looking into each other’s eyes. Obi-Wan’s very much considering breaking the only rule Vokara has given him when Qui-Gon’s comm beeps and shatters the moment.

“Hm, it’s Anakin,” Qui-Gon says, starting to pull away from Obi-Wan as he looks at his comm. “His lessons for the day are finished, and I promised to watch him in the salles afterwards. I’m already late, but you know me.” He flashes a smile. “He says hello, by the way.”

Obi-Wan plasters a smile on his face and ignores the sinking feeling in his heart. He feels odd and out of place all of sudden, as though he’s two steps out of phase with everybody else. Of course, Qui-Gon needs to get back to Anakin, he shouldn’t be wasting his time here with Obi-Wan. He’s clearly been here a while, hair messy and clothes askew, as though he’s been sleeping in the chair beside the bed.

There are more important things for Qui-Gon to be doing.

Those thoughts, a constant plague at the back of his mind since he was a padawan, niggle at him, but he ignores them just the same. Qui-Gon snaps his comm away and Obi-Wan does his best to put on an unaffected air, but the slight twitch of Qui-Gon’s eyebrow tells Obi-Wan he’s noticed anyway, but he says nothing, smiling broadly and quickly pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll come get you when Vokara releases you from her clutches,” Qui-Gon chuckles. “I’ll see you soon, my Obi-Wan.”

Obi-Wan just hums in reply, eyes downcast at his fingers fiddling with the covers, and he misses the brief frown Qui-Gon gives him from the doorway before disappearing.

The room feels so much emptier without Qui-Gon’s presence, both physically and in the force. Even though he’s a physically large man, and can cut an imposing figure if he wants to, his force signature is much subtler. Gentle and forgiving, comforting like a warm blanket on a cold day, and often Obi-Wan doesn’t realise how calming it is until it’s gone.

When the room had felt kind and inviting moments earlier, now it feels cold and dark, and Obi-Wan curls himself into a ball under the thin sheets. Sleep eludes him, coming in fits and starts he jolts awake from, mind whirring with thoughts he can’t stop.

Hours later, when he’s just managed to gain some semblance of sleep, dozing in half awareness, Vokara enters the room to give him a last check-up. After giving him lovingly stern orders in a way only Vokara can, she discharges him from her care, humming approvingly at his healed shoulder.

He stands dumbly outside the healing halls for a moment, hand resting on the wall. Qui-Gon had said he’d come fetch him, but Obi-Wan doesn’t want to take up any more of his time, so instead, he slowly makes his way through the temple alone.

It’s early evening, and Obi-Wan nods in greeting at the few Jedi he comes across on the journey to his quarters. When he palms open the door, he’s greeted by cold, empty rooms. He hasn’t been back to these rooms in months, most of his belongings in Qui-Gon’s quarters with Anakin now.

Fatigue nips at his heels and he bypasses food in favour of his bed, collapsing on top of the unused covers in his robes and boots.

\--

He wakes to the sound of someone calling his name. The voice is reedy with anxiety, and it takes his sleep addled brain a moment to pinpoint who it is. He pushes himself to sitting just as the door to his room slides open and Qui-Gon stands there looking slightly wild around the edges.

“Obi-Wan,” he breathes in relief and comes to kneel before Obi-Wan, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I’m fine, Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan says and gives him a shaky smile that doesn’t quite make it to the smile stage.

He feels wrong and out of step with himself again as he stands up, like he’s a stranger in his own body, and he hates how weak it makes him feel. Qui-Gon’s face falls, and his lost expression only makes Obi-Wan feel worse. He needs something easy and familiar to occupy his hands, to ground him to the here and now, and a nice hot cup of tea sounds lovely right about now.

In the kitchen, Qui-Gon’s gaze is like brand on his back as he shuffles around, setting water to boil and gathering his favourite tea leaves. The tension in the room rises like a wave, and Obi-Wan can practically feel Qui-Gon biting his tongue, his confusion a palpable thing in the air.

He has no idea what’s happening, but the force tells him that whatever it is, it’s coming to a head. The warmth from the mug seeps into his fingers, as though giving him strength, and he lifts it to breathe in the rising steam as he turns to face Qui-Gon.

And then he almost drops it.

Of all things he expects to see, like Qui-Gon with his arms crossed or his face set in determination, what he doesn’t expect is to be greeted with a defeated Qui-Gon with slumped shoulders, bowed like the weight of the world is upon them, and eyes sorrowful in a face devoid of expression that makes him look too old for his years.

This isn’t the Qui-Gon he knows, not even the Qui-Gon after Xanatos fell.

“You’ve decided then?” Qui-Gon whispers, voice creaky and tired and nothing like his usual warm rumble.

“What?”

“I suppose I always knew this was coming, I just...,” Qui-Gon sighs, “I hoped for more time.”

Obi-Wan feels utterly lost, like he’s just butted into the middle of a random conversation. “Knew what was coming? Qui-Gon, what are you talking about?”

“I do not blame you for wanting another more suited to you, who is worthy of your love, your –“

Obi-Wan quickly moves to grab Qui-Gon by his upper arms. “Qui-Gon, stop. What–,” Obi-Wan freezes, and like an arc of lightning, everything suddenly makes sense, “-you think I’m leaving you.”

Qui-Gon just looks at him, eyes filled with a resigned acceptance and nothing short of despair.

Obi-Wan shakes him lightly, beseeching him with wide eyes to find an answer he cannot guess at. “Why would you think that?”

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon sighs, and the tone of his voice is one he used so often during Obi-Wan’s apprenticeship. When the answer was in front of his eyes, but he could not see it. “I was your master for one, and I’m far too many years your senior for another. An old man with greying hair and wrinkled skin of a life well-lived. You are young and vibrant, a firebrand with your life stretching out ahead of you. You do not need an old man like me holding you back.”

Obi-Wan feels like laughing. Or crying. Or both. What comes out of his mouth instead is a hysterical mix of the two as he stares at Qui-Gon in astonishment. All this time, he thought the odd looks and hesitant touches were Qui-Gon pulling away from him, trying to let him down easy in some misguided attempt at softening the blow. Because he no longer needs Obi-Wan. Because he isn’t anything special. Because why would Qui-Gon want him around when he has The Chosen One?

Maybe Qui-Gon is right after all; the answer is indeed right in front of him, he’s just been too absorbed in his own insecurities to realise it.

Obi-Wan has no idea how to fix this, but apparently his mouth does because it goes ahead without any input from his brain.

“Qui-Gon, I’m so ridiculously in love with you it’s comical. You’re one of the most beautiful beings I’ve ever had the privilege to lay my eyes on. For force’s sake, I can hardly resist climbing you like a damn tree most of the time, it’s a legitimate daily issue trying to not think about you bending me over the nearest flat surface, or about the noises you make when you’re buried inside me!”

Obi-Wan’s cheeks burn when he realises what he’s said, but he refuses to take the words back. They’re true after all, even if he might not have said them quite like that had he had all his faculties.

He watches as Qui-Gon blinks in surprise, as equally shocked at Obi-Wan’s outburst, but insecurity and confusion still resonate from him. Their bond, secretly undissolved after Obi-Wan’s knighting and transformed into something they don’t quite understand, whispers in the back of his mind.

Qui-Gon is a man of action, rather than words. Whereas Obi-Wan is the opposite, twisting and turning words to do his bidding, to masterfully dodge questions and obfuscate the truth, never one to put his heart on his sleeve. But Qui-Gon isn’t some scheming senator, and this isn’t one of those times.

Squeezing Qui-Gon’s upper arms to get his attention, Obi-Wan looks him directly in the eye and inhales a breath, holding it for a moment before breathing out “You thick-headed idiot...,” and pulling Qui-Gon in for a deep kiss as he drops every single one of his shields.

He can’t remember ever having done that before, always holding something of himself back, never fully relinquishing himself to Qui-Gon, or to anyone. Fear is a powerful thing, and it’s at its most insidious when it makes you do something without realising why, without knowing that it’s fear that drives you in the first place.

So as he kisses Qui-Gon, he lets all his love, all his happiness when he’s with him, the comfort and serenity his presence gives him, come to the fore. He fills Obi-Wan with strength, he’s what he thinks of, _who_ he thinks of, when he’s troubled and in need of an anchor. There’s no one else he would trust with this, with the core of himself, with all his love but also all his insecurities.

He feels Qui-Gon’s awed mind sift through the onslaught of feeling and emotion, delving deeper until he passes the happiness on the surface and hits the gnarled and twisted parts of himself, the thoughts and anxieties he buries away from the light.

He waits for the moment Qui-Gon will pull away and leave, having seen the truth of Obi-Wan and deciding he’s not worth it. The thought twangs loudly in his mind, and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

When Qui-Gon does pull back, it’s slow and deliberate. He stays close, breath ghosting over Obi-Wan’s lips and brings warm hands to cup his jaw. Obi-Wan grips Qui-Gon’s robe as he waits for the words he knows are coming. Tears cool on his cheeks, and soft lips kiss his closed eyelids, thumbs swiping the wetness away. He lets out a ragged breath as a kernel of hope lodges itself in his chest.

“Look at me, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says softly.

Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut further and shakes his head.

“Please,” Qui-Gon whispers.

Obi-Wan shudders and relents. Qui-Gon’s neck comes into focus and he sees the uncertain swallow, before he tracks his gaze slowly up over his jaw, past the half-smile on his lips, and finally, inexorably, to his eyes.

Qui-Gon is looking at him with such gentleness, such devotion, it makes Obi-Wan weak in the knees. The smile on his face grows, and Obi-Wan is helpless to mirror it. He laughs wetly, the hope in his chest now a roaring fire in the face of Qui-Gon’s love.

Qui-Gon brushes his nose against Obi-Wan’s. “You are more precious to me than any prophecy, Obi-Wan, and I am sorry I let my own insecurities blind me to the truth my actions have wrought. Will you let me prove it to you?”

“Prove what?” Obi-Wan asks quietly, the moment as fragile as cracking ice over a lake.

“How much I love you. That my heart and soul is yours and that I will never leave you so long as it is within my power.”

The words are crystalline, and in a show of weakness Obi-Wan would never normally allow himself, he closes his eyes, and with a quiet ‘please’ that echoes in the small space between them, places himself body and soul into Qui-Gon’s hands.

Qui-Gon’s embrace is all-encompassing and tucked under his chin Obi-Wan breathes in the faint scent of sapir and musk that is quintessentially Qui-Gon. He feels like he can truly relax for the first time in a long time.

A kiss is pressed to his hair and then Obi-Wan is guided the few steps to the bathroom. A shower is switched on, clothing removed piece by piece followed by soft kisses gifted to each plane of pale skin revealed. Qui-Gon lovingly washes the sterile smell of the healing halls from him, taking such care with his shoulder despite Vokara’s expert healing, and Obi-Wan just lets it all happen, watching through half-lidded eyes and unable to resist pulling Qui-Gon down for deep searching kisses.

There’s a hint of urgency to Qui-Gon’s touches, but it’s muted, a slow burning fire under his skin. When Qui-Gon runs a towel over him, leaving behind nothing but damp flushed skin, his eyes are fierce and Obi-Wan is breathless in the face of that fire.

He lets himself be crowded into the empty bedroom, only stopping when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Qui-Gon keeps moving regardless, laying Obi-Wan back until he’s spread out over the sheets, all pale skin and lithe muscle.

Qui-Gon’s hands follow his eyes, calluses catching on his knees, hips, ribs as they smooth their way up the expanse of his body. A frown twitches across his face. “You’ve lost weight.”

Obi-Wan reaches for him, tangling fingers into damp locks. “Well then you better help make me hungry,” he says, pressing the words against Qui-Gon’s lips.

Qui-Gon doesn’t answer so much with words, but he doesn’t need to. The kisses he presses to Obi-Wan’s lips and down the slope of his jaw, the hint of teeth as he tracks down his neck and beyond, are answer enough.

When he opens his eyes, he finds Qui-Gon watching him from his place between Obi-Wan’s splayed legs, gaze full of such heat and desire he feels a flush spread from his neck and down his chest.

Qui-Gon’s hands bracket his hips as he pushes himself up, and then one is wrapped around his cock and Obi-Wan squeezes his eyes shut, presses his head back against the mattress as he arches into the pleasure. A twist on the downstroke and Obi-Wan gasps, a hand flying down to grip Qui-Gon’s shoulder.

The mattress shifts and suddenly Qui-Gon’s fingers are pressing against him, somehow wet as they circle the delicate skin, and Obi-Wan holds his breath as one finger slowly sinks inside. He groans against the fullness, batting Qui-Gon’s hand away from his cock because in no world is Obi-Wan going to be able to resist such an onslaught of sensation and _not_ come in two seconds.

Qui-Gon chuckles lowly, as if knows the power he holds over Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan shivers as the sound drags over his skin. He’s helpless against Qui-Gon, the press of his fingers as they stretch him open, as they bump against his prostate and Obi-Wan can do nothing but pant in delirium.

The effort it takes to open his eyes, lift his head, is more than worth it for the look on Qui-Gon’s face; open in a way it hasn’t been recently, and filled with a passionate focus that threatens to rid Obi-Wan of all sanity.

There are times when Qui-Gon’s gaze is filled with an intensity Obi-Wan can hardly stand, as if he’s looking into the soul of the person he’s focused on. Unique, in the way that only Qui-Gon is.

But right now, Qui-Gon’s fingers are as focused as his gaze, and then pressing ever forward, even as Obi-Wan drags Qui-Gon down by the shoulder, needing to distract himself with a kiss. He licks into Qui-Gon’s mouth, fitting the curve of those lips against his own until Qui-Gon’s fingers slip from him to brace against the bed beside his shoulder.

They lose themselves for a moment, and Qui-Gon blankets himself over Obi-Wan’s body, the sheer size and warmth of him never failing to send pleasure coiling down his spine. Qui-Gon’s cock rests against his hip as he leisurely rocks against Obi-Wan’s own.

“Move to face the end of the bed,” Qui-Gon murmurs against Obi-Wan’s lips.

For a moment, Obi-Wan can do nothing but moan until Qui-Gon’s words register in his pleasure-addled brain. He makes a small noise of loss when Qui-Gon pulls back, but does as he says and rises on shaky arms and legs to face the end of the bed.

Qui-Gon moves behind him, presses kisses down his spine until he settles behind Obi-Wan, and it’s only then that Obi-Wan understands.

A floor-length mirror hangs on the wall next to the door, and Obi-Wan sees himself reflected back, all flushed skin and glazed eyes and hair as wild as he feels. Qui-Gon is watching him, eyes dark and intent on his face and Obi-Wan drops his head between his shoulders and shudders.

“No,” Qui-Gon says hoarsely, “look at yourself. Watch yourself fall apart on my hands, my cock, Obi-Wan. Watch as I prove how precious you are, as I give you the pleasure you deserve.”

Obi-Wan whimpers but obeys. Any other time and he’d be embarrassed at the sheer openness of his expression, emotions written across his face like an open book, but here in this room, he knows he is safe with Qui-Gon.

Qui-Gon drags his hands down Obi-Wan’s spine, and he feels it as much as he sees it in the mirror, and then there’s blunt pressure and he watches his own face fall slack as Qui-Gon sinks slowly into Obi-Wan’s body.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon breathes. Obi-Wan pants at the stretch, eyelids fluttering half-closed as he shakes with the effort to keep his head up. Qui-Gon curves himself over Obi-Wan’s back as his hips press flush to Obi-Wan’s, and sets his lips to his ear. “Perfect.”

The pace Qui-Gon sets is lazy, long, rolling strokes that go _deep_ , the head of his cock dragging achingly slow against Obi-Wan’s prostate, and he’s helpless to stifle the fevered moans that are pulled from his throat. It doesn’t matter here though, Qui-Gon has always been greedy for the noises he wrings from Obi-Wan.

“Qui-Gon,” Obi-Wan pants, “please.”

“Please what?” Qui-Gon might look composed in their reflection, but the roughness of his voice and the raggedness of his breath in Obi-Wan’s ear betrays him.

“You can...,” Obi-Wan rasps, and swallows against the dryness in his throat, “you...harder, please.” He doesn’t care that he’s begging, doesn’t care that he looks like a man deranged in the mirror, because he feels as he looks and if Qui-Gon doesn’t do _something_ he thinks he’ll go mad.

“But what if I like it like this?” Qui-Gon’s hands flex where they’re gripping Obi-Wan’s hips. “What if I want to watch you go mad with pleasure, until you’re begging to come from nothing but the drag of my cock inside you?”

Obi-Wan whines and his arms shake, Qui-Gon’s words like liquid honey in his ear. He knows Qui-Gon would do it, would drag this out for hours just to see Obi-Wan delirious with want and need, until he was an incoherent mess and utterly pliant in his hands.

Qui-Gon’s next thrust is hard and deep, and Obi-Wan gasps in surprise, squeezing his eyes shut against the spike of pleasure. He immediately returns to the slow pace of before and smooths a palm up Obi-Wan’s spine as if to calm him, and Obi-Wan feels halfway to hysterical.

“ _Please,_ ” Obi-Wan begs, and he has no idea whether he’s asking for Qui-Gon to stop or keep going, but right now he just needs something. _Anything_.

He watches Qui-Gon in the mirror, sees and feels Qui-Gon nuzzle his head to the side so he can suck kisses to Obi-Wan’s neck and across the back of his shoulders. He struggles to keep his head up, arms shaking dangerously now, and Qui-Gon must take pity on him because he slips an arm underneath Obi-Wan and across his chest and pulls him up until his back is flush against Qui-Gon’s chest.

The sudden change in angle presses Qui-Gon’s cock right against his prostate, and the pressure is so agonising he clutches at the wrist of the hand resting against his throat.

“Fuck,” Obi-Wan pants, and sees Qui-Gon smirking in the mirror. Like this, Qui-Gon can see all of Obi-Wan on display, can look his fill as he arches back against Qui-Gon and clutches at his hip.

He shifts experimentally, splaying his thighs to fit more comfortably over Qui-Gon’s underneath, and slips further onto Qui-Gon’s cock. Qui-Gon groans, a broad hand coming to grip Obi-Wans hip hard enough that he wouldn’t be surprised if there were finger marks there come morning.

The streak of possessiveness in him rears its head at the thought.

Obi-Wan tries to steady himself against it, but then Qui-Gon starts rolling his hips again, smoothly dragging his cock so deliciously over his prostate as he stares dazedly ahead.

“Watch,” Qui-Gon murmurs behind his ear, and his hoarse voice betrays how affected he is by the image they make in the mirror.

Obi-Wan lifts his eyes to meet Qui-Gon’s and rocks down against Qui-Gon’s thrusts, tightening against his cock because if he can make Qui-Gon feel even a drop of what he’s making Obi-Wan feel, then Obi-Wan can die a happy man.

“Good,” Qui-Gon praises.

He watches the flex of Qui-Gon’s hips in the mirror, the strength of his hand around Obi-Wan’s throat, the sheen of sweat coating them both. Obi-Wan’s own cock is wet and aching between his legs, but neither of them reach for it. They both know Obi-Wan can come just from this, from the torturous push and pull of Qui-Gon inside him, from words whispered in his ear in a voice dragged over gravel.

Qui-Gon drops his head against Obi-Wan’s shoulder and he knows he’s close, thrusts gaining a sharp desperate edge and Obi-Wan moans out his approval.

“Come, Obi-Wan. Please, on me,” Qui-Gon begs and stops thrusting to grind insistently against Obi-Wan’s prostate, and the utter fullness and constant pressure sends pleasure spiralling up Obi-Wan’s spine that’s enough to send him over the edge.

He feels more than hears the rumble of Qui-Gon’s voice in his ear, the words indistinguishable, and then Qui-Gon suddenly pushes up into him in short and sharp thrusts as he chases his own pleasure.

“Force, Obi-Wan,” he breathes, “you’re perfect.” He feels Qui-Gon come a few moments later, watching as he pants his orgasm into Obi-Wan’s ear.

They come down slowly, Qui-Gon still buried inside him until his hips begin to protest the position. Qui-Gon slips out then and gently lowers Obi-Wan to the bed. A warm cloth appears from nowhere and he wipes them both down before spooning up behind Obi-Wan.

A hand comes to rest over Obi-Wan’s heart, and he covers it with his own, threading their fingers together. Qui-Gon presses a kiss to the slope of where Obi-Wan’s neck meets his shoulder, where he knows Qui-Gon’s favourite patch of freckles are, and he huffs out a laugh. Qui-Gon makes a muffled enquiring noise.

“We’re idiots.”

“Indeed,” Qui-Gon laughs. “Although I can’t say I’m sorry about it, if this is how it ends.”

Obi-Wan makes a noise of mock indignation and gently kicks one of Qui-Gon’s legs where they’re tangled between his own. It devolves into a half-hearted wrestling match that Qui-Gon inevitably wins by pinning Obi-Wan to the bed and showering his face and neck with ticklish kisses.

Laughter fills the room, no longer cold and empty but warm and filled with happiness, and Obi-Wan finds he can’t fault Qui-Gon’s logic.

He will happily be an idiot, if it brings him this.


End file.
